People say that I'm young;
Having lived or existed for only a short amount of time
Inexperienced with two fists full of optimism and enthusiasm

I am young
I hold hope in my smooth hands
I don't bare deep set lines of worry and surprise
I have plum circles of sleepless nights under my eyes

Worry rests there

The branches shook in the wind,
sending more drops to deform the writing.  
Puddles surrounding,
it is soon to be drowned.

Sitting under a park bench.
Left and forgotten.
The Sunday funnies are no longer funny,
the news is no longer important, and
the score on the Giants game debatable.
It starts to pour.

Rain washes away footprints,
chalk and spilled ice cream cones.
It even washes away the news when forgotten,
under a park bench on a Thursday evening.